On Saturday, I hopped the long, slow train to Chichibu for their annual local festival. Here are some of the things the photos won't tell you.

They won't tell you about the drunken older Japanese man by the station who kept claiming to belong to the yakuza, asking if we wanted to see his tattoo. They won't tell you that this man thought that my cohorts and I looked like Germans. And they won't tell you that he kept apologizing to us that Japan lost the war.

They won't tell you that even though the festival reportedly has something to do with silkworm cocoons, there wasn't a single one to be seen, that I could tell.

They won't tell you about the drunken shrine-rider whom they had to tie by the waist to his post so he wouldn't fall off again.

They won't tell you about the whining, creaking of the huge shrine wheels that I first thought was yet another nearly atonal traditional Japanese instrument.

They won't tell you about how the fireworks were so close that we knew they had begun because the building we were in was shaking.

They won't tell you that even overdone, cheap, deep-fried squid on a clear, dark, frigid night tastes far better than the best calamari at a restaurant.

And they won't tell you that even on the days when I can't wait to get out of this country, I know I'm going to be missing the days and nights when I can do things such as stand in a swarm of strangers, sipping a beer, and watching a little old woman play the shamisen while an eight year old dances on a 400 year old portable shrine over everyone's heads. This may not be home, but it's still where a sizeable chunk of my heart is.

PS

Will thinks this post is rather Japanesey and musing.